


The Warlock and the Hunter

by ChillieBean



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Blow Jobs, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hunter Jesse McCree, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Rough Sex, Vaginal Sex, Warlock Ashe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-02-16 10:34:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21506476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChillieBean/pseuds/ChillieBean
Summary: A hunter is in town.Thehunter. He is far from the first to grace Elizabeth's little town, and absolutely won’t be the last.But what sets this one apart from the rest of them who have failed, is that he has a reputation. He is known amongst the supernatural circle not just for his hunts, but for his sordidappetite.
Relationships: Elizabeth Caledonia Ashe/Jesse McCree
Comments: 5
Kudos: 51





	The Warlock and the Hunter

**Author's Note:**

> Have yourselves an almost month late spoopy fic. Does it matter? Does Halloween ever really end?

Elizabeth waits with heated anticipation.

A hunter is in town. _The_ hunter. He is far from the first to grace her little town, and absolutely won’t be the last. 

But what sets this one apart from the rest of them who have failed, is that he has a _reputation_. He is known amongst the supernatural circle not just for his hunts, but for his sordid _appetite._

He is an effective hunter; not many of those who do cross his path live to tell the tale. But he lets some of them live and the stories they have told… just thinking about him makes her unashamedly wet. 

She intentionally wreaked a little havoc so he would grace her little town with his presence. Nothing too bad—a slain cow here, a simple polymorph there. She didn’t hurt any _one_ , and she was surprised at how little effort it took. Her little birds spied him approaching the town earlier today, and he has spent his afternoon in the tavern, talking to the poor, helpless townsfolk about little old wretched warlock Elizabeth Ashe and the _havoc_ she is causing.

So right now, she waits.

The storm rages outside, a flash of lightning is immediately accompanied by a deep rumble of thunder. She knows the hunter will be close—he uses the cover of darkness, the noise from the storm to get the job done and get out with no one else the wiser. 

It's just a shame that after she has had her fill of him, isn’t going to let him leave here alive. It’s either him or her, her life against his, and she loves living too much.

She wouldn't attempt something so daring if she couldn't handle him; she wouldn't let him step foot in her cottage otherwise. Her bedroom is warded with a protection spell that will make lethal blows non-lethal, she can summon her infernal with a simple flick of her wrist. 

If—and that's a big _if_ —he ends up with the upper hand, breaks the spell and manages to kill her, she has a failsafe: a resurrection spell. She's completely protected from him and any harm he'll do to her.

She hasn't gone centuries on this Earth without making sure she has contingencies in place.

 _When_ he arrives, and _when_ she is finished with him, _she_ will be the one to end his sorry existence. She'll be the one who brings down this hunter, who presents his head as a trophy 

She will be the one who brings down legendary hunter Jesse McCree. 

Sitting on her bed, her plan is to get right down to _business_. She’s wearing nothing under her burgundy velvet robe—there is no point in delaying the inevitable, they both know why he’s here and it's not just to take her out.

She hears a creak from the wooden floor just outside her room and she shudders with anticipation. There is no movement, no other sounds, not for a moment, then the door opens slowly. Glancing up from the spellbook she’s got open on her lap, she settles on the hunter as he steps in. 

The first thing she eyes is his gun, a sexy revolver with wooden highlights. She looks at the man himself, and he is dressed for a fight. He’s got bullets and silver steaks on no less than _three_ separate belts and bandoliers, she’s sure he’s concealing knives in his pockets and boots. He looks ready to stop an entire army of supernatural beings. 

Surprisingly, he isn't dripping wet. His hair and clothes are dry, his boots, though, have mud on them. It's not outside the realms of possibility that he left his coat and a hat by the door, as strange as that courtesy is, given he is here to take her head. 

The moment their eyes meet, he levels his gun at her. She doesn’t find it threatening in the least, and she makes a point to look him in the eyes and stare him down. 

He is handsome, more so in real life than his poorly drawn wanted poster. His hair is long, in a low ponytail, his eyes are a gorgeous chestnut brown. He's got broad shoulders, looks muscular beneath that long coat of his, his trousers are on the tight side, showing off _quite_ the sizable bulge.

She bites her lip, resisting the urge to spread her legs for him, here and now. 

All in good time.

Closing her book and setting it on her nightstand, she meets his gaze again and smirks at him. "Hunter."

“Warlock.”

“I’ve been expecting you.”

He huffs a laugh. “That why it was so easy to get in?”

Elizabeth shrugs playfully. “You’ve got a reputation and I knew you were coming. No point trying to keep you out.”

McCree chuckles, low and dangerous and _sexy_ , holstering his gun. He keeps his hand on the hilt, though. "And what reputation might that be?"

She draws a leg up, bending it at the knee, revelling in his eyes dropping to watch her every move. The robe pools between her legs, but he doesn't get a show, not yet. "I hear you have an appetite for the supernatural, that _we_ are the only ones who can satiate the hunger burning deep within you."

"And what makes you think _you_ are what I'm looking for to _satiate_ my hunger?"

"Well, for one," Elizabeth says, slowly tracing a finger along her collarbone, "you've put your gun away." She moves down her chest slowly, pulling back her robe to reveal her cleavage, and smirks when she hears his slow exhale. "You'd have already dropped me if my head was all you were after."

He pulls his hand from his gun, now resting it on his belt. It draws her eyes to that delicious bulge, and she licks her lips. "Two?" he prompts.

" _Two,_ " she continues, her hand moves lower still. "You're _clearly_ unable to resist me."

His eyes snap to meet hers, just for a moment, and the second they return to her hand, she pulls the robe up her thigh, stopping just before revealing herself. 

"You are a goddamn tease," he murmurs. 

"It's one of my charms," she replies sultrily. “Since you have let yourself into my home,” she says, offering her hand, “you may call me Elizabeth.”

He doesn’t even look at her hand, keeping his narrowed eyes squarely on her. “McCree.”

She pulls back her hand and places it high on her thigh again, drawing his gaze. "So, tell me, _McCree_ , would you like a taste?"

McCree smirks, a sly little thing, stalking forward. He grabs her jaw in a tight grip, thumbing at her bottom lip. She meets his eyes, let's him have his fun as he looks her up and down. 

His mistake was not binding her arms. She doesn't take her eyes off him, not as she raises her hand slowly, not as she settles on his groin. He sucks in a breath, and despite his efforts to hide his surprise, the damage is done.

She applies a bit of pressure, digging the heel of her palm against him. He's as hard as a rock, and she grins. "Naughty, naughty."

"Never been with a warlock before," he says, his fingers brush against her cheek and along her horn. "There aren't that many of you left."

" _You'd_ know all about that," she replies, trying to keep her voice as even as possible. Warlocks far and wide are a dying breed, over the decades they have withdrawn from society, either by their own means or ostracised from towns for their sorcery. No longer worshipped, they are now outcasts. 

Elizabeth has enjoyed the solitary life mostly, venturing out to meet people in supernatural hubs. She hasn't been with a human in a long time, they’re boring if she’s being perfectly honest, but _legendary_ hunter Jesse McCree with his insatiable appetite has definitely piqued her interest. 

"Well I think it’s about time that your hold on those poor, unsuspecting townsfolk is lifted," McCree says, taking off his gloves. 

She cannot help but smirk at the sight of his hands; one flesh and blood, the other a gauntlet that moves as if it were his real hand. Instead of rounded fingertips, though, he has _claws_ , and there is no doubt in her mind that it’s imbued with silver. While silver has no effect on her, she bites her lip at the thought of those scraping against her skin. 

Her eyes are then drawn to the orange glow of his palm. It’s telltale witchcraft—specifically the signature from one witch in particular.

"I see the Witch of the Wilds has treated you kindly."

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Elizabeth rolls her eyes. “Don’t patronise me. You _really_ think me and the Witch aren’t close?” 

McCree stops unclasping his belt, his gaze shifting to hers. She holds his stare, looking into his eyes. Despite the fact that they look the same—an ordinary person would be unable to notice a difference between them—she can see the inferno burning behind his right eye. 

“And your _power_ ,” she points at his eye, “that is absolutely not human.”

McCree eases into a grin, his hands settle on his hips. “You’re the only one who’s mentioned _that_.”

“I like knowledge,” Elizabeth says, reaching out and ghosting her fingertips over his belt buckle. It’s a little silver vampire skull, she thumbs at a fang, and it would be imposing if she didn’t like it. “Knowledge is power.”

“Certainly is.”

Without breaking eye contact with him, she unfastens the belt. Before she can pull it away, he takes hold of his holster. She lifts her hands away, and after a moment, he drops it on the nightstand. He keeps his eyes on her as he unfastens the bandoliers, placing them with his gun. 

“You want to know what I know?” he asks. She sees it for the rhetorical question it is and just stares at him. “There's the fact that you were born just as human as I,” he traces a finger down her horn again, “that you _grew_ these. A result of your corruption.”

“They’re my best asset,” she says easily, not letting his words get under her skin. That is a detail not known by many, even amongst other supernaturals. She wasn’t born with this power but rather sold her soul for it. 

The fact that _he_ knows it isn’t overly surprising. He _is_ the best, after all. 

Besides, she isn’t here to get upset over traded secrets; she’s here to _see_ and _feel_ that absolutely _thick_ cock of his. 

He doesn’t say anything more and neither does she, as she gives him a sultry wink and unbuttons his pants. Her eyes drop, then, as she hooks her fingers into his pants and underwear, pulling them down slowly. Above a patch of dark hair, she sees the base of his cock, and she reveals inch by glorious inch of his cock. Her lips part, she sucks in a slow, stuttered breath. 

His cock finally bounces free and she takes him in her hand, pulling slowly. His eyes are trained on her, his bottom lip is firmly between his teeth. She stares at him as she leans in, pressing soft kisses to his shaft and breathing in deep. His smell is intoxicating, she could get drunk off it, and when she reaches the base, she licks the underside, all the way up to the tip. 

He moans softly, almost like a grunt more than anything, and she winks again, tasting the saltiness on her tongue. She purses her lips around the head, applying a little suction before swallowing him down. 

The noises he makes, his little moans and puffs of air, are simply delectable. She lavishes the underside of his cock with his tongue, hollows her cheeks every so often. His hands eventually settle on her shoulders, he slips his fingers on the inside of her robe and slowly pulls it back. 

She pulls back, then, tugging shallowly as she shrugs out of the robe, one arm at a time. 

“You’re beautiful,” he breathes. His thumb traces the curve of her breast, and she meets his gaze. “Perfect.”

“You haven’t experienced all of me, yet,” she purrs, smirking slyly. With one final kiss to his shaft, she pulls away and stands on her knees, resting her hands on his chest. She takes off his coat and unbuttons his shirt, both pool by his feet. He watches on silently, his only giveaway that he’s enjoying it all is the little, sudden inhales when her fingertips ghost his skin. 

His body is a tapestry of scars, some old and pale, others a little pinker. She maps every one, the obvious scratches from beasts, the knife wounds, the bullet holes. Each one tells a story she would love to hear, but it’s likely he’ll try to take her head once he’s had his fill, so why would he entertain her?

Letting her curiosity simmer, she pulls her hands away from his hips and settles them in her lap as she sits on the bed. He takes over, then, taking off his boots, his pants and underwear and kicking the mess of clothes aside. 

The moment he sits beside her, she climbs onto his lap, placing a hand on his chest to push him down. His cock rests between her and his stomach, she grinds down on it ever so slightly as she takes his hands in hers. She links their fingers together and drags them above his head as she looks into his eyes.

They hold the stare for a moment, then he lifts his head, ever so slightly. She leans in slowly, breathing in his air as her nose brushes against his cheek. 

Their lips touch, barely a graze, and she can feel the electricity between them. He closes the distance and holds still, just for a moment, before she parts her lips and kisses back. She moans softly—this level of intimacy is so foreign to her. Usually, she fucks for the necessity, in a back room at the tavern, or in an alley, or in the woods, quick and done, taking her fill from whoever pleases her with no feelings involved. 

She learned early on in her life that the only person in this world she can trust is herself; that way she’s not disappointed or having to rely on others. Solitude, too, is more agreeable than sharing a space with someone else. She can do things her way without someone else breathing down her neck and _nagging_. 

But in the moments where she _allows_ herself this intimacy, she simply _adores_ it. Breathing in another person’s air, sharing in this vulnerable moment, where the only thing that matters right now is them is simply magical. The rest of the world could crumble away and she wouldn’t care, not in the slightest. 

She rolls her hips, grinding in his lap and riding his shaft in long, slow movements. He groans when she takes his bottom lip between her teeth, and she pulls up again, seeing the fire raging in his eyes. 

Pulling their joined hands down his torso, she sits on her knees. Without letting go of his hand, she wraps her thumb around the base of his cock, lines him at her entrance and sinks down slowly, letting every single magnificent inch fill her up. 

She exhales slowly as she settles on his lap, giving herself a moment to adjust to his size. McCree pulls his hands away from hers, resting them high on her thighs, his thumbs rubbing little circles against sensitive skin. She notes that his prosthetic is warm, just like his flesh and blood hand, which, despite its glow, surprises her. 

"Can you feel?" she asks, placing a hand over his prosthetic, ghosting his fingers with her own. They flex and she smiles, meeting his gaze. "I'll take that as a yes?"

McCree hums, his hands move up her body slowly. "Made sure of that."

"Hence why you went to the Witch."

"Wasn't going to lose one of my best assets," he murmurs, cupping her breasts. "And now," he lifts his hips grinding into her, "I'm even better than before."

She moans, pushing down on him with the same force. She rests her hands on top of his and rocks her hips in time with him. Molten heat pools in her core, and she closes her eyes, losing herself in this moment. 

Her skin feels like it's on fire, burning in the best of ways. McCree is so good, so perfect, his hands drop to her hips, pushing and pulling, encouraging her to go faster. She keeps her hands on her breasts, squeezing and kneading, pinching her nipples. She likes things rough, without a doubt, and right now, at this moment, she would _love_ to feel McCree’s prosthetic fingers, those _claws_ inside her. 

Gods, just _imagining_ that is enough to push her over the edge. Her back arches, her toes curl, and she moans as her orgasm crashes into her like a wave. 

She has to brace herself with her hands on his chest, but she continues riding him through it. When the high passes, she slows to a grind and opens her eyes slowly, smiling as she settles on McCree. 

With a devious smirk on his lips, he looks her up and down. “Anyone tell you you’re easy?”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” she drawls, leaning down to kiss him, just a quick little peck on the lips before sitting back up. Resting her hands on his shoulders, she rocks her hips again. “Where’s the fun in sex if you only come once?”

McCree chuckles, low and dangerous, and it’s the _sexiest_ little laugh she’s ever heard. “Now you’re just spoiling me,” he says, placing a hand on the base of her spine as he sits up. He stares into her in the eyes, sweeping her hair behind her ear with the practice and ease like he has been doing it for years. “If you think this’ll stop me from carrying out the _real_ reason why I’m here," he says softly, "you’re sorely mistaken.”

“I’d like to see you try,” she whispers, cupping the back of his neck and pulling him into a searing kiss. 

The hand on the small of her back slowly slides upwards, over her neck and through her hair. He tugs gently and she moans against his lips, and before she can even think, he grabs hold of one of her horns and pulls her head back. 

Despite the surprise, despite the fact that under any other circumstance she’d have put down any _human_ who _dared_ to handle her so roughly, she moans again, longer, louder. She stares at him through narrowed eyes, he has a wicked little grin on his face. 

“Like things rough?”

Gods _yes_ she loves things rough. It’s why she prefers the company of other supernatural beings over humans—they’re too delicate, to _soft_ and _afraid_ for her tastes. McCree, though, is proving wild and rough; just what she _needed_.

“There’s more to sex than just penetration,” she replies, levelling him with a dangerous smirk. “Do your worst.”

He lets go of her horn, then, and jerks his head to the side. She sees it for the order it is, climbing off him and turning around. With a tight grip on her hip, keeping her ass upright, he rests the other hand between her shoulder blades and pushes her head and chest down onto the bed. The second her knees brace her weight, he pushes in, hard, fast, leaving her head spinning. 

He is relentless, growling with each thrust. She can barely hear him over the sound of his hips slapping against her and her moans, but all the noise, of him, of them, the storm outside, disappears in a blur of static when he takes hold of her horns in both his hands. 

Her head is pulled back and she lifts herself up on her hands. There isn’t any pain, but the pressure on her scalp is _euphoric_. No one’s fucked her like this in her _centuries_ of life, she doesn’t _allow_ partners to fuck her like this, let alone _humans_. She loves control, loves _being_ in control, leaving _her_ partners quivering beneath her. 

She isn’t quite sure _why_ she’s fine with it now, _especially_ given he is a hunter who is looking to kill her after this. Maybe her desires for him were just that strong that she is willing to be so submissive, to be used as a tool for his own pleasure. The Gods themselves know just how wet the mere _thought_ of him made her. 

He was right about one thing: it seems she really is easy. 

He pulls back harder, so hard she’s lifted off the bed. She screams, _screams,_ not in pain but in pleasure, in surprise. He wraps his prosthetic arm around her torso, pulling her in close, her back presses hard against his chest. He takes hold of her breast and squeezes tight while his other hand settles between her legs, his fingers massage her clit. Her hips buck, she reaches behind him and tangles her fingers in his hair. 

She can feel his breath caressing her ear, she can hear how ragged they are. Pulling on his hair, he growls, his thrusts turn into quick little jerks. The arm around her tightens as he shudders, as he moans, long and low. 

He doesn’t stop working her, he doesn’t stop grinding. She knows he’s finished just from the slipperiness and the _squelching_ of each movement. It pushes her closer to orgasm, but the moment he takes her earlobe between his teeth, biting down with the gentlest of pressure, while simultaneously twisting her nipple in the _exact_ same way she likes, she moans and falls, her back arches off his chest, her head rests on his shoulder.

He doesn’t let go of her as she rides the wave of pure pleasure, holding onto her for moments, she’s not sure how many. Long enough for her breathing to return to normal at least, to realise that she is still rocking her hips. 

She tunes back into the present, opens her eyes and looks at his prosthetic arm around her chest. The silence isn’t broken, and despite the fact that she _knows_ that this is it, that after this she’ll have to kill him to defend herself, she gives into this single moment of pleasure, this shared afterglow, as he continues dots soft kisses to her shoulder, her neck, her cheek. 

One last kiss is pressed to her temple, he holds there for what feels like an eternity. She has to close her eyes, she can’t let this sudden, intrusive feeling of _love_ tugging at her heart distract her. The bubble is about to burst, and she instead keeps a level head as she prepares for the inevitable showdown. 

He frees her from his grasp and she climbs off him, turning to meet his gaze. He wordlessly climbs off the bed, stands and stares. She is ready to fight, her fingers twitch; she doesn’t need to recite a spell to send him crashing into the wall.

But, instead of reaching for his gun, he picks up his underwear from the floor, sliding them on. 

She doesn’t take her eyes off him as he gets dressed. He is in no hurry, he's careful with his weapons and ammunition. She is on full alert through it all, and a little puzzled by the theatrics. Why not take her out straight away? Why is he dragging this out longer than necessary? 

Then, when he is fully dressed, his eyes snap to meet hers and he winks. “I’ll be seeing you.” He leaves her room, his footsteps echo on the wooden floor before eventually fading into silence. 

Then, and only then, does she let go of the breath she didn’t realise she was holding. She allows herself to relax, lying back onto the bed as a smile spreads on her lips. 

She dodged death. 

His parting words echo in her mind. She brushes her fingers against her bottom lip, over her breast, between her legs, everywhere he touched. She can feel his spend and she rubs it over her clit, working herself up again. 

He’ll be back one day.

He’ll be back, and she awaits that day with bated breath.

**Author's Note:**

> Please remember to treat your warlock, and other horned folks, with love and care. Just because one likes her horns tugged doesn't mean they all do. And practice safe sex. Always. 
> 
> I'm on [Twitter!](https://twitter.com/BeanChillie). Come say hi!
> 
> This fic has [art by the wonderful MrBRose27!](https://twitter.com/Rose27Mr/status/1254525658765520896?s=20) Give them all your love!!!


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